


In Which Time Travel Requires an Instruction Manual

by IceEckos12



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Sam-Centric, Time Travel Fix-It, much angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-13
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-02-17 04:55:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2297318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IceEckos12/pseuds/IceEckos12
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In other words: Castiel and Sam get pulled into the past. No one's entirely sure why, but they'll do whatever it takes to make things right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Not actually Sastiel. Unless you wear slash goggles. I don't really care how you interpret it. They come back from the season 8 finale, to between season 3 and 4, when Dean was in hell.

Sam is watching the angels falling, a burning pain welling up in his chest and coating the inside of his throat like acid—

And then he’s on the bathroom floor of a sleazy little motel, sucking air like a fish on land. It’s such an abrupt, disorienting change that he immediately sits up and makes use of the porcelain throne beside him, dry heaving into the toilet. Surprisingly, though, nothing comes up, not even the shitty Kitchen-Sink soup that Dean made for him at lunch. 

He wipes his mouth, staggers to his feet, and glances into the mirror as he scoops some of the tepid water into his mouth. He promptly freezes.  
He didn’t notice it at first, not with the whole throwing up business, but his body has definitely changed; he looks, and feels, almost like he did four years ago, right after Dean’s untimely demise (the one by way of hellhounds. Lillith. God, even after all this time he’s still fending off nightmares). He feels like he’s half-juiced on demon blood, but not quite same feeling after he drank whole gallons of the stuff and started the apocalypse; more like he was when he first started drinking the blood. After Dean’s death, before his second birth. (And isn’t that fucking weird, that they’ve had second and third births; they were born right from the earth’s core, climbed out like a bunch of half-assed zombies)

It doesn’t take him long to figure out that he’s definitely gone into the past, especially after he flips open the wallet in his pocket and sees the fake ID stamped 2005. Weirder shit has happened, after all; right now, though, he’s wondering if this is a legit second chance, or if someone has just trapped him in his mind. Again. Maybe it’s Lucifer. He almost misses the Devil, after all the crazy shit that’s happened to them. 

But that’s not important. 

Second chance or not, he’s going to make the most of it, right here, right now. Dean will come and rescue him if it’s in his head, just like he always does, but he can’t take the chance that he’ll miss being able to fix everything. 

Sam vaguely remembers this motel as he steps out of the bathroom and into the main living area, trying to card some of the water out of his hair. Sure enough, his bag is open on the bed, all his equipment spread out on the sheets so he can clean them later. Not that they’d needed it at the time, really; Ruby had just started teaching him how to exorcise demons, and he’d been using his powers all over the place. 

His fingers clench as he thinks of the ebony-haired demon. She’s one of the things he’ll definitely have to fix. 

Sam’s knives feel like old friends in his hands; they fit into the curve of his palm so perfectly, the hand worn away from repeated use. 

It’s then that he notices that the scar on his palm is gone; the one he got from throwing himself down on the glass after Castiel became God. For a second the sight of his unblemished hand startles him so much he nearly cuts himself on the knife’s blade. 

He’s been on autopilot ever since he woke up, he realizes, because it’s the only reason he hasn’t had a complete mental breakdown; however the lack of his security blanket suddenly throws him for a loop. And the only thing Sam can think is, what if Lucifer comes back and he’s got nothing? In his heart he knows that Castiel took care of it for him, but—

God, right now Castiel will be a perfect little soldier, his usually soft blue eyes blank and hardened with obedience. Raphael is still alive, still a threat, as is Lillith; but then again—

Bobby’s in his house right now, worried about Sam, so worried; probably calling his phone over and over again, not dead, not with a bullet in his head. The Leviathans are still in their cage right now, still in Purgatory, and Dean hasn’t gone there yet, he still hasn’t been betrayed, and Benny’s still trapped in there right now, also not dead—

Sam hasn’t opened up Hell yet, released Lucifer. He still hasn’t drunk enough demon’s blood to be permanently gone yet. He hasn’t abandoned Dean in Purgatory yet, hasn’t broken Amelia’s heart, and Jo is still alive, and Ellen’s not dead either, and—

Everything is gone. Everything that they’ve done. Sam sits down hard on the bed, dimly realizing that his hands are shaking, and that the knife has dropped from his hand. Every accomplishment, every mistake, every death—just wiped away. Just like that. God, how insubstantial is his life? Is it so easy, to just throw away the future and stick him back in the past?

It wasn’t like they were happy or anything—God forbid a Winchester ever be happy—but they had something. They had the bunker, they had Castiel and Kevin. They had separate rooms, and not because they were pissed at each other and trying to avoid each other again or because they were possessed. Did that count for nothing?

Sam’s breathing is coming quick, hot and heavy, and he feels light-headed, so he presses his head into his shaking fingers, and eventually rocks back and forth, trying to stave off the bubbling panic in his chest. He dry sobs, knowing that he won’t actually cry—during this time, he never could. It was like all the tears in him had curled up inside his eyes, trying in vain to keep them hydrated as he pulled all-nighters day after day, until he collapsed. Just the memory of this time makes him panic even more, because this time was hell on him, he hated it and still hates it with every fiber of his being, and his rocking increases, and the shaking just won’t stop—

He wants Dean. He wants Kevin. Hell, he’ll even accept the emotional brick that is Castiel at this point, if only so he doesn’t have to be alone anymore—  
There’s a flapping sound, and then a presence. 

Sam immediately freezes, though he can’t for very long, because he’s still shaking and trembling, and his hands are clasped around his ears like a vice. He knows that Castiel’s here, because he accidentally called him, but this isn’t his Cas; this isn’t the one that begged for their forgiveness after becoming God and killing hundreds of people. This isn’t the Castiel that got himself exploded trying to protect the fucking Winchesters—

“Sam.” A quiet voice says, lifting his hands from his ears. 

Sam can’t help but flinch away, trying to push away the angel in front of him, but failing miserably because his fingers are still trapped in Castiel’s grip. And now he’s speaking back, but it’s a faint whisper, and a simple repeated mantra: “You’re not him, you’re not him, you’re not him—”

“Sam.” Castiel’s voice is harsher now, and he feels his hands shoved into one iron-fisted grip. The other hand, now free, roughly grabs Sam’s chin, and forces his face upwards; Sam refuses to open his eyes, though, keeps them squeezed shut, not wanting to open them and see blank unfamiliarity in those blue depths. “Sam,” The voice rasps impatiently, “Open your eyes.” 

From the sound of it, Castiel’s kneeling now, and then he’s got his hands pressed on either side of Sam’s face. Sam nearly shoves him off, but the contact is so wonderful after so long that he can’t bear to do so. Instead, he reaches up and wraps his hands around Cas’s, silently wishing that he’d go away but also hoping fervently that he wouldn’t. 

Sam nearly starts crying when he feels the gentle pads of thumbs stroke across his cheeks; he knows it’s important, really important, and that if he were in a better state of mind he would be able to tell why, but still stuck in the throes of a panic attack that simply refuses to abate, he can’t quite manage it. Still, though, when Castiel quietly commands him to ‘open his eyes’ again, he listens. 

He sees familiar blue, a softness tempered by time and the pain of too many mistakes, and a gentle worry that’s so inherently their Castiel he actually nearly jolts off the bed. Normally he would be embarrassed by the fact that the angel’s caught him in the middle of such a panic attack, but Sam’s so relieved he can barely restrain himself from throwing his arms around Castiel. 

“Cas…” He whispers, not quite daring to believe. “Is it…?”

“Yeah.” Is the gruff response; Castiel smiles at him, relieved, before staring searchingly into his eyes. “Are you alright now?”

With a jolt, Sam realizes the shaking has stopped, and his panic has calmed down into a low thrumming in the back of his mind. Suddenly embarrassed by the sudden show of weakness, he drops his hands from Castiel’s and rises to his feet, gently but firmly turning back to his bag. “Sorry,” He mutters, unable to look in Cas’s direction.

There’s a long silence, and then Castiel responds, “It’s fine.”

The elephant in the room is so obvious Sam nearly starts suffocating; he clears his throat self-consciously, and forces himself to look at the angel still kneeling on the floor. “So,” He says, trying to sound glib and not like he nearly just had a major panic attack in a shitty motel room. “We came back from the future, huh.”

“Seems like it.” Castiel smoothly rises to his feet, before gliding to the window and peering at the darkened parking lot. “I need to put the sigils back on your ribs.”

Sam grimaces, but obligingly turns around and opens up his arms so his chest is easily accessible; the pain only lasts for a minute anyway, and it’s nothing compared to Hell. Besides, the thought of the angels being able to find him and track his every move makes his skin crawl like he’s got a million bugs all over him. 

To his credit, Castiel speaks as he presses his hand against Sam’s chest, which is much nicer than the completely unsympathetic silence he got last time. “Do you know what you’re going to do?” He asks as Sam grits his teeth and tries not to shout. Fuck, he forgot how painful carving anti-angel sigils into his bones were. 

“Not kill Lillith.” He manages through his clenched teeth. “Not release Lucifer. Kill Raphael. Keep everyone else alive.”

He pauses. 

“Save Dean.”

Castiel eyes him a little, obviously thinking something but not wanting to voice it for fear of offending Sam, before nodding. “I can’t stay away long.” He says, rubbing his hands together. “Be safe.”

Sam grabs his arm and pulls him into a hug before he can leave, because he really, really appreciates that Cas is here. “You too, Cas.”

For a moment the angel is tense against him, but then it just sort of melts away, and his arms awkwardly come up to clasp Sam back. 

Then he’s gone, and Sam sighs quietly and lets his hands drop to his sides; they feel strangely empty, for some reason. Without another word he lifts his bag onto his shoulder, checks the room to make sure he hasn’t forgotten anything, and then exits the motel. 

He has a lot of work to do.


	2. Chapter 2

Ruby walks into the room, as confident and sure as ever.

She’s wearing her usual tight-fitting black suit, and is twirling her knife in one of her slim, pale hands, smirking wide at him. Sam dearly wants to punch her in the face. It’s only his plan, which he carefully constructed after an hour of trying to convince himself why it would be stupid just to outright attack Ruby, that stops him. She’s still strong, she’s still smart—possibly even smarter than him, and right now the only advantage he has over her is that she thinks he still trusts her. Still, though. It takes all of his willpower not to grab the demon-knife and shove it down her throat, carve her in two because of all the pain she caused, all the trouble and agony Dean had to go to because his stupid little brother got addicted to demon blood.

Instead, he glibly plucks the spinning knife from her hands and casually flips it back and forth, grinning at her challengingly. He says something soft and teasing, casually flicking his hair to one side in a playful gesture as her smirk widens, and her hands plant firmly on her hips. Of course she responds in an equally mocking voice, no doubt thinking that he’s just horny and addicted to demon blood (which he is right now, but only a little), not that he’s planning to stab her the minute her back is turned. They banter. Every word feels like poison in Sam’s mouth, but he spits them out over and over, hoping that the acid hidden in his voice will do all the dirty work for him.

Eventually she ‘gives up’ and turns away, opening up her pockets onto the bed, and then… He comes up behind her, his hand a firm but gentle pressure on her shoulder. She leans back into him, no doubt expecting a fierce kiss to follow— But that’s when he forces the demon blade deep into her back, right into her spinal cord. She spends her last seconds surprised and utterly confused, before her knees buckle and she keels to the floor like a puppet whose strings have been cut.

Sam barely hesitates, simply lifts her from the ground and carries her into the bathroom, fitting her into the bathtub so that cleaning up the blood won’t be all that difficult. He feels like he should feel…happy. Sad. Grieving. Anything but this. Anything but nothing. He stares at the corpse of the demon who fucked over his life, and does not feel any sense of peace, or sensation of happy revenge. He does not feel regret, either, which he’s actually a little surprised about, because he did love her, at one time. Instead, there’s a deep, empty pit in his stomach, a great gulf in his emotions. This should probably be concerning, but it really isn’t. He can’t bring himself to care, or even pretend to.

After that, he drives for as long as he’s able to; almost three days with no sleep and very little food, just him and the endless road. Sam only stops because he’s forced to; his eyes began blurring at the beginning of the fourth day, and he still has way too much to do before he can just kill himself and get it over with. He finds another sleazy motel, and passes out on the bed, his stuff thrown onto the floor next to him. He doesn't bother to unpack; it’s not like he’s staying long anyway.

*

Two days later, Sam’s standing out in the parking lot, his face tilted up to the sky, calling down what seems like his only ally in the world. (Because yeah, he still has Bobby and Ellen and Jo for fuck’s sake, but does he really? They’re not from the future, and just the thought of Sam, hell-broken Sam, with the knowledge of a war-torn future in his head and too much baggage to be explained, makes him feel impossibly alone.)

Castiel doesn’t make him wait long. “Sam.”

“Hey, Cas.” He responds, relieved, before pulling the angel into a hug. They stay like that for a moment, because Sam really needs it and Castiel sort of does too.

When they separate, the angel immediately asks, “Ruby?”

Sam closes his eyes for a moment, his body feeling cold where she had been pressed up against him merely days before. Then he opens them again, carefully tucking the feeling behind a thick layer of numbness. “Dead.” If Castiel notices his moment of weakness, he very graciously decides not to mention it.

“So what’s next?” Sam eyes him sideways, shifting uncomfortably on his feet, knowing what he wants to do next but not entirely certain that Cas was going to like it. He bites his lip, worrying it between his teeth, until Castiel notices and practically yanks open his mouth with one firm hand. “Stop that.” The angel chides shortly. “Just tell me.”

“Metatron?” Is the immediate response, and just like Sam expected Castiel’s face sort of goes all robotic and cold, his eyes a blank, unforgiving icy blue. But it’s definitely something they need to do;Ruby started the apocalypse, or helped to start the apocalypse, and Metatron caused the angels to fall. It’s a shitty job, but if not them, then who else?

It’s just then that Castiel purses his lips and says in a low, careful voice, “You know, we’re walking a very dangerous line right now.”

Sam sighs and turns around, as though that were enough to distance himself from the conversation, Cas’s words tickling the small part of his brain that felt fear. Because what it—just what if—Lucifer rose again? What if he came after Sam again, and what if Sam has to g o b a c k t o—

He’s curled up on the ground, throwing up the contents of his stomach onto the pavement of the parking lot. _I wouldn’t survive it,_ Sam thinks, a little hysterically, and dry heaves again, hoping to expel the thought along with his puke. _I couldn’t do it again._ Castiel’s gently rubbing his shoulder, and Sam nearly cries with relief that he’s not saying _it’s alright, it’s alright,_ because it’s really not. They’re trying to fix a situation that was already shitty in the first place, and Sam doesn’t know how they’re going to succeed where…well, he and the Dean didn’t.

But the future is going to become so uncertain now; what with the power vacuums opening up left and right, and the fact that some of the main players are dead, they’re not even certain Lucifer will rise anymore, even after Dean breaks the first seal. As long as they don’t kill Lilith, (and they’re definitely the only people who could do it besides maybe Bobby), the 66th seal will never open. But they don’t know that. The future is so much heavier when it’s already come to pass.

Castiel’s hand is gently curled at the base of Sam’s neck, a grounding weight in a world suddenly afloat; inch by inch, Sam slowly relaxes, allowing his breathing to even out and wiping his rancid mouth on his sleeve. Thankfully there’s a fresh breeze blowing through, lifting the smell of his own sick from his nose and carrying it on the wind to some other poor bastard. For a moment, Sam stares at his toes from where he’s curled over, examining the mesh of his sneakers; Castiel fixes his gaze on the sunset beside them, the sky a haze of purples and pinks and oranges.

Finally Castiel asks, with an air of resignation, “Metatron?”

Sam sighs quietly, and dusts off his knees. “Metatron.”


	3. Chapter 3

Halfway to the little hotel in the hills where Metatron is holed up, Sam suddenly has a thought. He doesn't stop the car, but he does turn to glance at Castiel, who is sprawled out in the backseat and quietly fussing with a Rubix Cube. The angel can’t stay for very long; he was just stopping by to say hello after completing a job for the angels upstairs (Castiel hates it. He can't stand the fact that he can't disobey these monsters, and instead has to listen and pretend to be a good little soldier.)

For a second Sam remembers the novelty of having an angel getting frustrated at a tiny human device in the back of his car. The Rubix Cube isn’t even close to being completed, and this angel, this enormous creature stuffed into a tiny little human container, is growling and huffing quietly. 

Then, Sam says, "What's our timetable on Dean's retrieval look like?"

Castiel pauses and looks up, expression thoughtful. "We'll pull him out after four months, I suppose." Then Castiel pauses hesitantly, because talking about Dean's time in hell makes them all a little twitchy. "That...is when he broke the first time, right?"

Sam sifts through two hundred years of memory, looking for the ones that are relevant to Dean's four month trip to hell. It’s hard, sometimes, to recall what life was like before the Cage. He flicks on his turn signal as he stops at an intersection. "I....yeah, about four months. Will you still be the one to get him out?"

And here, for the first time, Castiel looks vaguely uncertain, big blue eyes giving him the appearance of an enormous child. It is this uncertainty that makes Sam’s skin crawl, though, because there aren’t many people he trusts with his brother. And Castiel is the only angel to make that list--so if someone else is sent to retrieve him….

“If you had to take a guess….” Sam says slowly, and he has to jerk his attention back to the road when he realises that the car is also beginning to decelerate. He waits for a few minutes, until the car is going a good click, before finishing his words. “If you had to take a guess, who would be sent to get Dean, if not you?”

Castiel gives the Rubix Cube one more half-hearted look, sighs, and discards it onto the floor next to him. He looks comfortable, secure in the knowledge that he is welcome here in this place, where he wouldn’t be anywhere else. As Castiel thinks, Sam keeps one eye on the road, one eye on his friend, and thinks that the only thing that they’re missing is Dean. 

“My garrison was selected because we have a history of search and rescue missions to hell.” Castiel says finally, scratching his nose idly. “I suppose the only other garrison with that kind of record was Zachariah’s.”

At that thought, they both freeze, almost too horrified for words. Sam still remembers the sickening sound of his legs cracking, and the terrifying free fall a second later. He also remembers choking on his own blood much, much later. He remembers a lot of things he’d rather not think about, and all of them Zachariah’s fault. Castiel, judging by his face, is along the same line of reasoning; he’s pale, jaw tight, muscle in his cheek jumping erratically. 

“Castiel….” Sam begins slowly. “Promise me that, whatever it takes, you will be the one to rescue my brother.”

“I can make no promises.” Castiel says resolutely, because he’s gotten better at being human, but he’s still terrible at lying out of kindness. “But I will do everything within my power. You have my word.”

And that, Sam supposes, will have to do. “I trust you.” He says quietly. 

Castiel pauses here for a second, like he wants to say something, like he wants to argue that point; but then he just sighs quietly and shifts, a soft shuffle of trench coat on vintage leather. He tilts his head quietly in acknowledgement. “And I you.” 

Things are silent for a minute, and that minute is almost long enough for the quiet to get awkward; but then Castiel pauses, eyes distant in an expression that Sam his mentally labelled, ‘Angel Radio Mode’. Sam waits patiently for him to finish, rolling through another few miles of cornfield, watching the open sky as they glide on their long grey ribbon of road.

Castiel abruptly shakes his head and frowns, staring into nothing. “I need to go now, Sam. Be careful.”

“I’ll pray to you when I get there.” Sam promises.

Then, the angel’s gone.

\-----------------------------

Sam gets to the dinky little motel in the backass of the United States, books a room, and sets up base camp. For once he’s exhausted, but he supposes that two days of straight driving will do that to a person; what this means is that when he flops onto his horribly uncomfortable bed, he actually falls asleep. He prays to Castiel the next morning, because he said he would, but doesn’t get an answering flap in response. But he’s not impatient; it’s not like he’s in a hurry or anything; last time, Dean was rescued several weeks from now. He’s a hunter, and he’s waited longer times for less important things. 

So he researches. 

He spends hours refreshing his memory, going over old cases that will become relevant within the next year or so. He goes to check Metatron’s room to make sure the old bastard is still in there (he is--there’s an enormous pile of books next to the door). He skips lunch, but buys dinner at the nearest diner and scopes the newspaper for any new cases. That night he falls into bed, pleasantly buzzed on a relaxing day.

The next day he spends much the same. 

And the next.

By the third day, he’s beginning to crawl up the walls out of sheer boredom; the town is uneventful, the people are uneventful. Hell, just being here makes him feel like he’s being bogged down by thick sludge, thoughts running at only half speed. He spends nearly thirty minutes begging for Castiel to come _right now_ , and at the very least put him out of his misery. 

After this, he’s definitely getting the key to the bunker back. At least in the bunker, there was always something to _do_ and all the privacy one could ever want. 

Finally, the next morning Castiel shows up, in all his late glory. Sam is honestly surprised that he doesn’t appear with a cup of Starbucks in his hand. 

“I heard your call, Sam.” Castiel says, in a perfectly straight monotone that hasn’t fooled Sam in over a year.

“Stop laughing at me, you bastard.” Sam responds, and tucks the holy oil securely over one shoulder. The angel smiles at him in response, just a tiny quirk of the lips that anyone else would have missed. “Alright, so do we have a gameplan?”

Castiel’s smile falters.

Sam sighs, and his shoulders slump a little. “Don’t tell me you just planned on barging in there and killing him, did you?” At Castiel’s vaguely surprised, vaguely guilty look, Sam shakes his head and puts the holy oil back down. “That kind of defeats the purpose of a ‘surprise attack’, Cas.”

“He’d be really surprised, though.” Castiel says doggedly, in a pouty, grumbly tone that Sam thinks he recognizes from elementary school children whining about not getting their favorite toy. And it’s funny and all, but this is rather ridiculous, too, because Castiel could’ve died. It’s so easy to forget that this angel impulsively opened a portal to Purgatory, but moments like this are rather telling.

“He’d be surprised, and then we’d be dead.” Sam says. “He’s been living on earth for a long time; he’s got his tricks. We’re going to need something a bit more solid than ‘walk in with guns blazing’.”

Castiel considers that for a second. “Alright. So what are we going to do?”

Sam grins. “Give him what he wants.”

\-----------------------------------------------------

Sam steps into Metatron’s hotel room, consciously forcing his steps to make lots of noise as he enters. He walks around a little bit, peering into the darker corners of the room, letting his eyes flicker curiously. He can’t see the older angel, but that doesn’t mean that he isn’t there. 

Sure enough, a second later a shotgun barrel is placed on the back of his skull; the silence of the movement is so perfect that Sam nearly jumps out of his skin. He doesn’t, though, too used to being threatened to react; instead he quietly raises his hands into the air, a silent but succinct surrender.

“I come in peace.” Sam says dryly, just because he can.

“Back away.” Metatron responds, voice the same low, reedy growl it was not so long ago. “Turn around, hands where I can see them.”

The human--because he is just a human, and he’s all too aware of that right now--does as the angel commands, telegraphing his every move. He doesn’t want to accidentally get shot before Metatron’s dies. 

Metatron, the great, curly-haired bastard, peers curiously down the barrel of his gun, eyes gleaming in the low light. He’s not feeling threatened, not really, but paranoia has transformed him into a nervous, anxious creature afraid of his own shadow. Now, if only that fear were enough to prevent him from being a douche...

Sam waits patiently for the visual examination to finish, before jumping right in. 

“I have a story for you.”

The catches Metatron’s attention. “A story?” The surprise rapidly shifts into sly, wary interest, and his unsmiling mouth twitches a little. “What kind of story? Who sent you?”

“I sent me.” Sam responds instantly, hoping against all hopes that Metatron will drop that line of thought with his next words. “The story is one that’s been written in the stars; you probably know it well.”

Metatron, true to his nature--because whatever he is now, whatever he’s going to do now, he’s always been too curious for his own good--raises an eyebrow. His shotgun lowers just a bit, the tip pointing at Sam’s knee rather than his face. Sam feels himself relaxing slightly, and has to resist sending Castiel a message not to leap in, angel blade blazing, just because Metatron is no longer being threatening. They have a plan. 

“Is that so?” The angel asks coolly, almost coyly. “Then why should this story interest me, if I already know it?”

“Because the ending got bent to hell.” Sam responds promptly, and allows a rueful grin to cross his face. “If nothing else, the characters are brilliant at defying fate itself.”

Metatron wavers, paranoia and good instincts warring with curiosity and the thirst for knowledge. He looks to the side, as though searching for answers in his pile of books, posture tense and alert, and then...he slouches. The gun is leaned gently against the wall, and Metatron conjures a chair out of nowhere, taking a seat like a king coming home on his throne. “Tell me, then, of this story of yours.” The angel says, gesturing to one of the chairs behind Sam. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Sam swallows and nods, settling onto the box behind him (he remembers ringing, resonating so hard he was nearly shaking with it; he remembers this, though it’s so fever-drowned he’s not entirely sure what was real and what wasn’t). He crosses his legs, or at least starts to, before changing his mind, settling his elbows onto his knees and leaning forward. “It began thousands of years ago, when it was written that….”

He’s never told their story to anyone before; no one has ever needed to have been told. Or, the ones that did need to hear it, Sam was too afraid to lose them to tell them. As he talks, he keeps half an eye on the shelves around him, watching for the flicker of movement that will tell him how Cas’s progress is going. Slowly, he observes, as he begins wading through the psychic visions he started having when he was 22 (and God, has it been that long? He was thirty when he was sent back, right?). 

Metatron, unsurprisingly he supposes, is a remarkably good listener; he doesn’t ask questions, or fidget too much. He watches Sam with unnervingly intense eyes, taking in every word, every part of the story. So far, his only movements have been to lean forward and relax a little, clearly engrossed in Sam’s weave. 

Sam finishes off Dean’s stint in hell, and for a second catches sight of one blue eye peering through the books. _Cas’s finished, then_ , he thinks, and makes himself pause for a moment. “Do you mind if I stand and talk?” He asks Metatron. “I think it’d be easier if I was able to move around.”

“Please.” Metatron says absently, still watching Sam with unnerving gunmetal grey eyes. 

Sam swallows and stands, begins pacing around the room--and surprisingly enough, it does help, even though that wasn’t the original intent. As the holy oil drips down Sam’s wrist as he makes a half-circuit of the room, Sam talks about Ruby, and Dean’s suspicion, and the breaking of the sixty sixth seal, and that horrid year where the apocalypse reigned--

He falters over the Cage and the brutal beating of his older brother. He knows he has to keep talking--Metatron is only so distracted because he’s got an interesting story, after all--but the words catch in his throat, and he can’t. He can’t say it. He needs to, but he _can’t_ , but he _has to_ , and he has done much harder things than this. 

Sam pushed the devil out of his damn head, thank you very much. 

So he continues. 

Throughout it all, Metatron is dead quiet, and as still as any statue as Sam's ever seen. But there's a flicker of poignant interest, like he's seeing something other than just Sam sitting there. As though he's watching the events in motion, a background montage of Lucifer's ascent, and two brother's fight that went just beyond fists. Sam finds the feeling very, very uncomfortable. 

He's so relieved to finish the circuit, the little half moon of holy oil he's created finally connecting to Castiel's. They've got him; he can stop now.

He meets Castiel's eyes through the stack of books. Go time.

Fire suddenly licks up from the floor, and before Metatron can react, the circle closes around him. It takes him a second to realize what's going on; he blinks for a few seconds, then whips around a little, then turns to stare incredulously at Sam. Then he swears violently in Enochian and slaps the arm of his chair.

[Yeah, that story of mine? Actually happened.] Sam growls out in perfect Enochian, as Castiel moves from his hiding place to stand next to the hunter. [And you were more of a problem than we're comfortable leaving alive.]

Sam's speaking Enochian because he knows, without a doubt, that he needs some proof. He needs Metatron to believe him; needs him to understand what he did in the future, and why he needs to die now. And judging by the way Metatron's looking at him right now, he believes him just fine. 

[You're Lucifer's vessel.] Metatron says, rising to his feet out of the squishy little chair he'd been sitting in. He looks, as he usually does, like a smaller man than he actually is, shoulders hunched a little. [You jumped into the Cage with Michael and Lucifer.]

Sam raises his chin defiantly, even as he feels his knees begin to tremble, and opens his mouth to respond--

But Castiel beats him to it, and if he had wings that could be seen, they would be spread high above his head, looming over all of them like an angry giant bird. [That's of no import to you.] He snarls, the Enochian tumbling like rocks from his throat. [He's not the one you need to worry about.]

Metatron, who'd been steadily ignoring the other angel in favor of his much more interesting friend, snaps his eyes over to really look at Castiel. When he sees who Castiel is, rage contorting his normally open, wide features, he pauses. Tilts his head to one side. And grins, like he's just been told the best joke he's ever heard.

[I made you complete the angel trials, didn't I.] 

Castiel's steps forward aggressively, and Sam has to yank him back to stop him from stepping into the fire. They have a plan, dammit, and the idiot needs to stick to it!

[I will rent the bones from your flesh.] Castiel says, his voice a swirling dark promise. What's even more impressive is that what he said was only one word. Apparently that punishment got so popular among angels they thought it deserved a new verb.

[You'll have to kill me to do that.] Metatron says, voice suddenly coy. [And you'll have to open the circle to do that. Let's see who's faster, shall--]

And for the past four days, Sam has had nothing but time. He's sat in that stupid fucking hotel room for what seems like years, with nothing to do but research and sleep and think (never a good thing with him). But occasionally, that thought goes to something productive; in this case, realizing that Metatron is correct when he says they'll need to open the circle to kill him. And then he remembered something that Crowly did, which Castiel has only told him about. 

So before Metatron can finish his sentence, Sam's leveling the gun at the angel's head, and pulling the trigger. A single bullet streams out, gleaming silver in the low light of the room. It slams into Metatron's head, snapping it back--

And bright light glows from the scribe's eyes as the melted down angel blade does it's work.

[You talk too much.] Sam says, and lowers the gun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey I realize that everything has been going very well for Team Free Will
> 
> This should be a big warning that things are about to go to hell


End file.
